


lights still shining in the room, you left me here

by royallieu



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Discussions about miscarriage and infertiliy, F/M, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 17:38:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8254589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royallieu/pseuds/royallieu
Summary: Perhaps at one point, her marriage to Jon had become less of a sham. But with a history of three dead children between them, even the strongest of unions would break, let alone one as fragile as theirs. When Sansa tries to save herself, her actions lead to some interesting revelations.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware that this version has been formatted differently than the one originally posted on Tumblr.

Daenerys grants her a private audience the afternoon following the incident along Blackwater Bay. By then, Maester Payten had tended to Jon’s wound attentively and had concluded that the Prince would live, much to the relief of his aunt and the royal court.

As soon as the news reached her own ears, Sansa had unraveled the moment the door of her bedchamber had clicked shut, had dropped to the floor as she wept uncontrollably between her knees. She had cried until there weren’t any tears left, and even then she had continued to heave and heave and heave. In truth, her husband had not been the only thing she’d been crying for; Sansa had cried for everything that had gone wrong between them, from their marriage to the loss of all their children. This must be punishment from the gods, she had surmised, despite all her disbelief in the divine. After all, how had it been possible for all this tragedy to befall them? How could all of this not have been a sign that they’d done something terrible?

Now she stands before her queen, head held high, though her expression is solemn. The possibility that had been running through her mind long before they had arrived in King’s Landing has evolved into a fully-formed plan, and now she intends on divulging the details to the only person who can set things right. The plan isn’t original, by any means, but Sansa’s own collaboration will expedite the process a great deal—this much she knows.

“That arrow was meant for me,” Sansa says, by way of opening, cutting through all the useless niceties and polite inquiries that their conversation has no time for.

“Lord Tyrion thinks the arrow could have been intended for any member of the royal family,” Daenerys points out. “But you sound rather confident in your opinion, princess.”

Sansa shakes her head. “Jon is much too loved for anyone to want him dead,” she explains, pulling at her fingers beneath the folds of her long sleeves. “Though the same cannot be said for myself.”

She is all too aware that very few would have wanted harm to befall the Prince that was Promised, especially the smallfolk, who positively adore him. Even the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms must look upon him with begrudging respect, what with his unwavering sense of duty and good heart.

And yet, what was Jon’s reward for his good character? A cold and distant wife, most of them say; who, like their queen, is cursed with the inability to have children. Unable to fulfill her marital duty, unable to grant her husband the happiness he deserves. Her story, if anything, makes it even easier for the masses to love him, and oh, how they do.

Everyone loves a good hero, almost as much as they love a good villain.

Jon’s wound, unintentional as it had been, brings into focus the reality of their situation. While the arrow had gone through his shoulder, one misstep meant that it could’ve easily gone through his heart, his life stolen in a breath, and that would be it; the future of the Targaryen line would have been snuffed out as easily as the light of a candle down to its very last wick. Had Jon died because of that arrow, there would be no children of theirs to inherit the Iron Throne, for none of them had made it to the full term. The possibility of a civil war would be as likely as ever, and everyone, even Daenerys herself, would blame her for it.

Unlike Jon’s death, though, hers would’ve been a blessing to many, especially for the nobles with schemes for their fertile daughters, those able to bear Jon a house full of children. Her own demise means that Jon would be free to marry again, and the certainty of the Seven Kingdoms would no longer be in peril, as it is right now.

For all she knows, her death might have been a blessing to Jon himself. It’s a cruel, morbid notion—completely unfounded, seeing as he had thrown himself on top of her to shield her from the arrow that had flown in her direction. Sansa doesn’t think he would ever wish something of that sort on any of his cousins, but the possibility that he could be relieved over her death makes her task so much easier.

_She’s on her hands and knees, staring down at the bed linen beneath her, while he thrusts into her from behind. It’s as disconnected a coupling as possible, with his hands gripping the edge of the headboard for purchase, both of them still wearing their shifts. It’s better this way, she reminds herself, clutching the linens under her fingers; it’s better that he isn’t able to see the emotions warring on her face, the love that she fears is obvious in her eyes. Jon is faced with so many burdens as it is—the realization that his wife is in love with him would only add to that._

“Your Grace, I’ve come to you with a proposal. It’s not ideal, of course; but in these circumstances, I think you’ll appreciate what I have to suggest.”

Her aunt-in-law raises an eyebrow at her. “And what proposal is this?”

Sansa goes straight to the point. There are no hidden meanings when she speaks, no innuendos or metaphors, no fluff to lighten the solution. It is there, in the open, laid out before the queen, and when she is done speaking she thinks Daenerys is looking at her with something akin to fascination, though Sansa will never be sure—the queen is a rather talented actress.

“I refuse to be cast aside, however,” she insists, her voice steady, determined. “I won’t follow the route usually taken by a woman in this kind of situation, Your Grace. I want something for myself, in turn.”

“Of course you do,” Daenerys assures, but there is no mockery in her tone. If there is anyone who understands her plight, she thinks, it’s the queen herself.

“You will be the Dowager Princess of Dragonstone,” she offers. “You will be provided with land of your own, and you’ll be free to do whatever you choose with it.”

Sansa smiles at her. “The latter part of your offer is more than I can hope for, but I could do without the title, Your Grace.”

“You wish not to be the Dowager Princess?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Sansa does not tell her that such a title would be a constant reminder of her failure, should she accept it; she doesn’t think Daenerys wishes to humiliate her, but a title like that will be nothing but.

“Don’t you want to remain a member of the royal family?” The queen asks, tilting her head.

“Being in your service is more than I can ever ask for, Your Grace. If you will allow me to be at your disposal, then you have already honored me.”

“If you live until Jon ascends the throne, or until his heirs do, will you still be as loyal?”

Sansa maintains her steady composure. “Your Grace, my loyalty towards Jon—towards the Crown—is the reason that I’ve brought forth this proposal in the first place.”

They regard each other in silence, two women whom the gods have deemed unfit to produce children of their own. A strange predicament, she thinks, especially for Jon.

“So be it,” the queen states.

 

* * *

 

Sansa visits her husband while he is asleep. Maester Peyton has been administering careful doses of milk of the poppy for his injury, says Jon’s squire, leaving him in a state of unconsciousness for most of the day. She briefly wonders what he dreams of.

At her request, his squire exits the bedchamber, leaving her alone with Jon. It’s probably better she does this while he’s sleeping, she thinks, until she realizes that she doesn’t even know what she’s here to do.

Unsure of herself, Sansa reaches out to hold his hand. It’s cold beneath her fingers, despite how warm the room is; she realizes with a bit of sadness that this is the first in a long time that she’s touched him, though it isn’t with his consent. She wonders how he would react had he been awake; perhaps he’d flinch at her touch, try as he might not to, but he wouldn’t refuse her. That’s Jon, she thinks, her thumb moving back and forth across his skin; resurrected or not, duty will always course through his blood, even when he probably longs otherwise. Duty had made her his wife, even when he didn’t even want her, but he had tried his best regardless. Most men wouldn’t have spared the effort.

But now it’s her turn to be dutiful, and she will be. The wheels are already in motion; several sessions had already occurred since she had first spoken to the queen of her proposal. Her Hand is now involved as well, and together they are carefully laying the pieces into place. Soon other members of Daenerys’s small council will be notified, and it will not be long until the rest of the court gets hold of the news. It never once occurs to Sansa that Jon would oppose any of this, seeing as his desire for children is so great. Perhaps this time his aunt will let him marry a woman he actually loves, she reflects with an aching heart; someone who will bring him joy and happiness this time, the things she never could, though there had been a time when she had tried. Still, if his aunt already has his future bride in the wings, she’s made no mention of it, and Sansa knows that she has no right to that information.

She stares solemnly at Jon’s face, then at his wounded shoulder. Most of it is wrapped tightly in clean linen, no longer tinged with red, as it had been a couple of days ago.

“I suppose it’s not your fault you had to wed someone who’s had nothing but ill luck when it comes to marriage,” she half-jokes. “Perhaps an arrow to the shoulder is getting off easily, you know.”

Sansa looks back on those she’d been betrothed to, like Joffery Baratheon and Harry Hardyng; each had already met their own grisly demise. Then there had been Tyrion Lannister whom she had married, and who had barely escaped with his life after his champion had been bludgeoned to death by the Mountain. She had no part in their fates, yet she still finds it strange that all the men she’s been linked to had met with tragedy shortly afterwards. The exception to this, much to her chagrin, is Jon—his near death, after all, had been due to an attempt on her own life. The reminder only serves to increase her guilt.

“I don’t know how I was foolish enough to delude myself into thinking that you could love me,” she continues, her eyes still staring at his face. “I suppose I’ll always be a romantic deep down, even when I ought to know much better.” She shrugs, though he’s not awake to see it. “Then again, it seems impossible, the idea of not falling in love with you. You treat me nicer than most, even when you have reasons not to.”

She knows that Jon holds some measure of affection for her, but she suspects that these sentiments are rooted from their shared childhood; from the start, she had known that he was mortified at the idea marrying her. His aversion hadn’t stung as much then as it did after she had realized just how much she loved him; Sansa remembers sleepless nights when she had tossed and turned in her bed, while Jon kept to his own bedchamber. Over and over she had questioned how despicable she was in his eyes, how badly he wanted out of their marriage. Whatever his desires, Jon had made a valiant effort at being a dutiful husband.

“Sometimes you make it seem as if you want our marriage to be more than what it is—that’s rather mean of you, even though you probably don’t intend to be. Still, it’s not nice to play with a woman’s heart like that, you know.” She pauses for a moment when she realizes how much she doesn’t mind this; with every confession she makes, Sansa finds that she feels a little lighter.

“I know it seems as if I didn’t mourn the loss of our children like you did, but I was hurting just as much.” She lets out a shaky breath, fighting back the tears that threaten to emerge. “Every time I lost one, it was like a piece of me died with it. And every time I lost a child, I knew that I was losing you as well, even though I have so little of you to begin with. It’s all written in the stars, I guess; perhaps you and I aren’t meant to find happiness together.”

With fingers that tremble, Sansa brushes aside a lock of hair that rests on his cheek. “Just so you know, if you don’t end up with a castle full of children, this will all be for naught,” she chides, in a tone as light as she can make it. Nothing works; in the end, she is blinking away tears that have come unwillingly. It matters not that she’s alone and Jon is asleep; she is still disappointed in herself for being this affected. She is supposed to be strong, unbent like iron, no matter how many pieces of her heart have been left in disarray. A comfortable arrangement awaits her, once everything is over, and she reminds herself of this, even while her cheeks are wet. It’s as good an outcome as she can hope for, compared to the other women who have met the same sort of end.  

The sound of whimpering startles her out of her seat, and when she turns her head in the direction she thinks it came from, she realizes that it’s only Ghost. The direwolf watches her from across the room, piercing red eyes boring into hers, and there is something in them that makes her turn away from his gaze. Unable to continue, she decides that now is as good a time as ever to call for Jon’s squire, when a notion grips her. It will very likely be the last time she gets to do this, she thinks; worse, she knows that she’ll be able to do so only because he’s not awake. Someone will take her place, while all those touches and affections that she knows he is so capable of will be for another. Perhaps this time, they just might be sincere.

She knows that she has to take what she can, while she still has the chance.

Sansa bends down to place a light kiss on his lips. It’s full of melancholy and lost hope, but she thinks it’s rather appropriate.

 

* * *

 

“My word, but I think you’ve become even better looking after nearly getting yourself killed,” Tyrion remarks lightly, as Jon takes a seat across the table. “Has it always been like this? Do you always look more attractive each time you’re physically harmed?”

“There _was_ a certain glow to you after your victory against the Others,” Dany chimes in, eyeing the Hand with an amused expression.

Though they keep the atmosphere casual, Jon can’t shake off the awful sense of foreboding that he’d felt the moment he took a step into the small council chamber. Something heavy lingers in the air, and only serves to rile him up some more. They wouldn’t ask to see him in this room if there wasn’t an important matter to discuss.

“Perhaps if I take a few more arrows, I’ll be the handsomest lad in the Seven Kingdoms,” he responds, though his tone is graver than any of those in the room. “Let’s hope that next time, they’ll be aimed at me, rather than my wife.”

Dany and her Hand glance at one another again, in that way that suggests that they are in the know about something. Jon has seen that look several times while being in their company; normally it bothers him not, but at the moment he cannot help but think it sinister.

“Maybe you can ask the traitor if he’s got a friend who’s due to make an appearance soon,” Tyrion jokes, though it only earns him a glare from Jon and his aunt. The Hand shrugs, unfazed by their looks of disapproval. “Oh, don’t look so dour. Drogon’s long digested him at this point, though I’m quite sure anyone else with a different palate would believe otherwise.”

Jon looks back at his aunt. “Why was I sent for?”

His aunt says nothing immediately, and neither does her Hand. Instead, they choose to watch him curiously, as if trying to gauge his current mood.

“We’re here to discuss your future,” Dany says, at last. “As well as the future of the Targaryen line.”

The corners of his mouth turn down. “What is there left to discuss?”

“Oh, many things,” she responds. “For the time being, though, the most pressing matter pertains to Sansa’s inability to produce an heir.”

Jon hardens immediately. “You don’t know that,” he defends, but there’s a note of hesitation in his tone that he knows will not be missed by those in the room.

“Jon, we all know she’s lost three children,” Dany reminds him. Her words unleash all the sorrow and hopelessness that he had felt each time a babe had been lost, forcing him to look away from his aunt. He takes the time to mask the despair he fears is emerging on his face, though the task proves difficult when there are two sets of eyes staring intently at him.

“She’s incapable of giving you an heir,” Dany presses on, even as he shuts his eyes in frustration. “As sad as that fact may be, a solution must be found.”

“A solution _has_ been found, actually,” Tyrion corrects. Jon looks up at him in confusion.

“We’ve tried everything that’s been brought to our attention,” he points out. Sam had already exhausted all of his education and resources in his own mission to help them conceive; despite his assignation to the royal family, Jon has been in Maester Peyten’s company enough times to conclude that he just wasn’t as knowledgeable as his friend. Whatever recommendation Dany and her Hand have, Jon is skeptical that it will be effective.

Tyrion looks at him with an unreadable expression. “I’m sure you have,” he says. “But, we think a different route altogether is necessary, at this point.”

“What are you talking about?”

Dany slides a piece of parchment towards him wordlessly; he realizes with surprise that it’s been sitting on the table this whole time.

“This is the solution, Jon. When you read it, you’ll understand.”

He tugs at a corner of the document to bring it closer towards him. The feeling of foreboding that he’s been experiencing since his entrance doubles in effect; as Jon reads the document, he completely understands why.

“What in Seven Hells is _this_?” He demands, looking up from the document to glare at those sitting across from him.

“It’s an annulment,” Dany explains, face still calm. “And once you sign it, your marriage to Sansa will be invalidated.”

Jon looks back down at the document. There are two signatures present, both of which are instantly recognizable. The larger of them is his aunt’s, but the second one, to his alarm, is none other than his wife’s.

Sansa wouldn’t.

He looks up again, his face just frustrated as before.

“Did you put her up to this?”

Dany and the Hand glance at one another again, both of their faces affixed with discomfort.

“We only made it a reality,” Tyrion says. “The princess was the one who proposed the idea of separation in the first place.”

“Because she’s acute to the fact that she can’t do what’s expected of her,” his aunt interjects. “Sansa knows that when she married you, she was expected to provide the crown with an heir. We now know that she’s incapable of producing children, but at least she’s smart enough to concede.”

“The court will continue to whisper until the future of the Seven Kingdoms is secure,” Tyrion mentions. “Sansa knows that if she cannot produce an heir, she’s putting you in danger, as we’ve already seen.”

Jon fixes his eyes on the Hand of the Queen, eyebrows knit in frustration. He’s still reeling from this sudden development, of which he had known absolutely nothing of until now, all while trying to figure out how he could have been so blindsided. How long had they—how long had Sansa—been planning this? Is it really possible that his wife had been the true mastermind behind this idea?

Has he failed that badly in protecting her?

“Look here, Your Highness,” Tyrion tries, filling Jon’s cup with even more wine, despite the fact that he’s barely touched it. “Your wife is a very intelligent woman, as the queen has already pointed out. She didn’t sign the annulment blindly, you know. The Princess knows how to play the game far too well.”

The Hand’s tone is sincere while he speaks, and suddenly Jon is startled by the reminder that the man sitting across the table had once been married to Sansa as well. It’s always been well-known information, but he hadn’t been affected by it until he became witness to their interactions; there had been something natural, congenial, in the way that Sansa and Tyrion spoke to one another, and more than once Jon had realized just how jealous he was of the Hand. He thinks he would give just about anything to be as charismatic and naturally charming as Sansa’s former husband, all so that she’d blossom under his attentions, the way she does under the Hand’s. Jon remembers all too well the way she had smiled at something the Hand had said (or had it been something he’d done?); her smile had been genuine, as bright as it was beautiful, and it had taken his breath away. She had smiled at him like that too, sometimes. But they had all been given during the early stages of their marriage, before the tragedy of three lost babes hung over them like a dark cloud, before they realized that there would be no children for them in their future. Nowadays, there are so few in Sansa’s life who can make her smile. It’s with heaviness in his heart that Jon has had to accept that he himself is not one of these people. How could he be, when he’s the source of all of her unhappiness?

“What victory awaits her if we separate?” He asks, closing one of his hands into a fist. “She’ll only end up being a social pariah if we go through with this, which she doesn’t deserve to be. None of this is Sansa’s fault, and you know that, Dany. I’ve already told you about—”

“We don’t know whether that’s true or not,” she cuts in, face as hard as steel. “ _You_ don’t know, not until you marry again and try with another.”

Jon glares at her. “I won’t marry again,” he says vehemently.

“Oh, let’s not say that,” Tyrion says, his tone light. The atmosphere in the room has grown tense, and only threatens to worsen.

“Your Highness, you must remember that Princess Sansa will be handsomely rewarded for her cooperation in this matter. There is no doubt that people will talk, but at least we’re not locking her up in a sept.”

“What are these rewards?”

“Lands and a title of her own,” Dany says. “We married you off to her because we thought she had both, remember? Before her youngest sibling was discovered alive.”

“She’ll be a very wealthy woman, thanks to this annulment,” Tyrion points out, taking another sip from his cup. “If you’re worried that she’ll end up alone for the remainder of her days, you’d best think again.”

He can’t help but glare at the Hand again. Jon thinks he’s only trying to cast the situation with a better light, but it isn’t working, at least not for him. His aunt can reward Sansa with all the lands and titles possible, but Jon knows better; if he signs the annulment, she’ll go down in history as the woman who failed a wife’s most basic duty, the Princess who had to step aside so that her husband could marry another, someone who could give him the heir that his aunt, and her subjects, so desperately need. Sansa can swathe herself in jewels so magnificent they were blinding, charm the entire continent with her sweet singing, but she would never be forgotten for her failure.

A failure that’s not even hers.

“We honestly thought you’d be more pleased about this,” his aunt remarks caustically over the rim of her cup. “Last I recalled, you had been rather cross when you married her—in fact, I remember you had been horrified. Perhaps your wife hasn’t forgotten, either.”

Jon clenches his teeth. He longs to tell Dany otherwise, but he realizes that he has nothing to say in his defense. She tells no lies; he _had_ been rather horrified at the idea of marrying Sansa, considering their past relations. And she had been always cold to him, when they were young. Jon had married her under the assumption that she was the same person he’d last seen when he left Winterfell to take the black, what with her chin turned up at him and her Tully-blue eyes shining with muted disdain, even when he should have known better, even when he had known that war and violence and blood had shaped all those he knew into different characters altogether. But he had been expected to marry Sansa for Winterfell, for the north, and it had been too easy to think of her as that girl who had been so eager to become queen, eager to discard her Stark heritage for a bunch of superficial southron customs.

He may have come into their marriage with such a frame of mind, but little by little it chipped away the more he settled into his new life. And the more he learned about Sansa, the more he realized that his wife was no longer that girl who’d looked down at him for being her father’s bastard, the harder it became for Jon to stay cross. Whether Sansa realized this was an entirely different story. Worse, he’s now realizing that she may not have at all.

_She steals a glance over her shoulder when he slides out of her, unfinished. “What’s the matter?”_

_He’s kneeling behind her, panting audibly, looking down at her back. Her skin is as white as milk, but he thinks it only brings the scars into greater focus. They tell a different story, every single one of them, and he wants nothing more than to press his lips against each one, again and again, until the awful memories she associates them with vanish altogether, so that all she remembers instead is the warmth of his mouth against her skin. He wants Sansa to lose herself in him the way he wants to lose himself in her, like rain that falls into the sea, but he still can’t find the means to tell or show her. Something holds him back, though he knows not what it is; fear, perhaps, or maybe even some deep-seeded resentment that he doesn’t realize he has until now. Jon wants to let go of these inhibitions, but he’s not sure if Sansa has even let go of her own. It was she, after all, who had asked that he claim his rights in the current manner that he does, with her back facing him; it’s so much easier for her to forget what they’re doing when it’s like this, he thinks, somewhat bitterly, and maybe that’s her very intention. And maybe it had been his, too, once; now though, he longs something else._

“You’re right,” he says, looking anywhere but Dany’s face. “I wasn’t pleased at the idea of marrying Sansa. But things have changed.”

Jon thinks he almost catches a flutter of sympathy on his aunt’s face. Almost.

“Well, everything’s as good as done,” she declares. “Whatever your feelings now, she’s already signed. And now it’s your turn.”

He looks down at the document resting on the table. Sansa’s signature stares back at him, her loopy ends reminiscent to her own long limbs, while the tight compression of the letters reminds him, for some strange reason, of her braided hair, the taut weave of her bright red locks. 

“No,” he says.

Dany’s mouth is set in a hard line. “ _No_?” She repeats, her tone threatening.

“I won’t sign,” he declares, unfazed by his aunt’s boiling anger. “Not until I hear it from her mouth.”

Jon pushes the annulment away from him, his grey eyes burning with defiance. “I need Sansa to tell me herself that she wants this, that this is her doing as much as it is yours. Only then will I sign.”

Dany studies him. “Do you give us your word?”

He nods.

His aunt sighs and rolls her eyes in frustration. “You’re more stubborn about this than I thought you’d ever be,” she complains. “My Lord, will you have Sansa brought to us?”

Tyrion gives him a pointed look before hopping from his seat to call for a servant.


	2. Chapter 2

“You must come with me, princess,” the guard orders, eyes sharp as knives beneath the edges of his helmet. Even though his gaze is stoic and rather unkind, Sansa cannot help but pity him; the heat is nearly unbearable this afternoon, and even the cool stone walls of the Red Keep do little to alleviate everyone’s discomfort. The guard’s face is shiny with sweat—she can easily imagine that the hair beneath his helmet is thoroughly soaked.

“Does Her Grace send for me?” She inquires, watching the guard from her seat in front of her dressing table.

“Yes, Your Highness. Along with the Queen’s Hand.”

She nods, turning to her handmaiden. “Rosyn, will you please inform Lady Spenler that I won’t be able to attend the rehearsal?”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Sansa is a little disappointed over what she’s missing. Lady Spenler, who is the Grand Mistress of Spectacle at the Red Keep, had herself been disappointed that the Princess of Dragonstone had refused to take part in the performance, though Sansa had managed to placate her somewhat by agreeing, instead, to play the role of the viewer, whose feedback she would give at the end of the rehearsal. Unfortunately for Lady Spenler, any order from the queen trumps whatever reservations she had made elsewhere.

The problem is that Sansa doesn’t really want to attend the rehearsal just for entertainment’s sake—it isn’t the spectacle itself she’s entirely interested in. Ever since she’d signed the annulment that had been drawn up and brought before her, Sansa’s mind constantly fixates on the question of Jon’s future bride, and who she might be. She doesn’t even know if Daenerys and her small council has decided upon one specific candidate, but the uncertainty does nothing to assuage her curiosity. More than ever now does Sansa take note of the ladies at court, of their looks and character. _Jon would find this one awfully pretty_ , she would reflect, _but her overfondness for cards might put him off_. Another one might be plain-looking but possess a brilliant mind, which Sansa knows Jon would appreciate, though her pedigree might not be to his aunt’s satisfaction. Her gaze would flit from one woman to another, all while she measures their chances of being the next Princess of Dragonstone; with a mentality that is wholly Littlefinger’s, Sansa deliberates sweet-talking her way into some of their company, knowing that one of them, should they succeed her, will remember her kindness. Perhaps it would have kept Cersei Lannister alive, had she gone down that route, as Margary Tyrell had. Though her friend had ended up making a match that was less successful than her first, she had, at the least, kept her head.

Sansa thinks that her heart is already too broken to be affected by this very strange hobby of hers; it’s more likely, though, that she had left her emotions with Jon, when she had said her farewells to him during that quiet evening while he had slept.

This afternoon’s rehearsal for the pageant will no doubt be teeming with the kingdom’s most eligible ladies, a perfect opportunity for them to put themselves on display for her soon-to-be former husband. Lady Spenler is notorious for choosing women of renowned beauty, with figures that border on the ideal, despite her own ungainly body, not to mention the complaints of mothers whose daughters did not meet the Grand Mistress’s expectations. Jon will have the pick of the crop, she thinks, while she follows the guard with his shiny face.

In the small council chamber that she’s taken to, the queen and her Hand are seated at the large table. Both turn their head towards her when she enters, and Sansa does not fail to note that tension that lines their faces.

“The princess, Your Grace,” the guard announces. Sansa curtsies low.

Tyrion dismisses the guard, leaving the three of them alone. She thinks they will beckon her to sit on one of the several seats available, but the order does not come.

“We have need of you, Sansa,” the queen starts. “My nephew, you see, is under the impression that we’ve forced your hand—that you’ve signed the annulment against your will. For that very reason, Jon himself will not sign until he’s satisfied that you’ve acted on your own.”

“His Highness thinks we’re crooks, basically,” Tyrion jokes, shaking his head. “What an age we must live in, for a royal bastard to think so low of his legitimate superiors.”

Sansa ignores the Hand’s comment, too stunned by the instructions she’s received. Of course Jon would put her through this ordeal, she thinks. Someone as honorable as he would never agree to an arrangement like this, if he thought foul play was involved. It doesn’t matter that he longs for what she’s giving him freely; Jon is more likely to stay with her, miserable and sullen, knowing that she’d be ruined if he didn’t. She supposes the idea that she would voluntarily resign herself to such a life would certainly be irrational in his eyes, and she wonders if he knows the full details of the annulment.

“Nonetheless, we need you to put him right,” Daenerys continues, tilting her head towards a door located behind her. “Jon wants a private audience you. He claims that he doesn’t want us influencing your words.”

She studies the occupants in the chamber. They watch her expectantly, shrewdly, and for some reason it reminds her of all those times when Joffery had forced her to beg for her life before his entire court, while he aimed his favorite crossbow at her. Although Daenerys and Tyrion hold no weapons in their hands, Sansa is all too aware that there are consequences for her disobedience.

She nods wordlessly.

“Sansa,” the queen says, just as she grasps the bronze door latch. She turns around, almost too enthusiastically; she thinks that perhaps Daenerys has changed her mind, that they’ll accompany her into the room after all. She really doesn’t want to do this alone—she doesn’t even know if she can.

“Your Grace?”

“Please don’t fail us,” she says, her voice even. Though her face is passive, Sansa can see the anxiety hiding in the depths of her violet eyes; it’s a telling sign that this issue is more pressing than anything else at the moment, if not the most pressing of all. The future of this woman’s empire rests on Jon’s acquiescence, and his acquiescence rests on _her_.

She bows her head before performing another curtsy.

Even when she pushes the door open, Sansa doesn’t enter immediately. The chamber is significantly darker, forcing the use of candles to ensure light. It’s hot enough as it is, and the flames will only steal what little is left of the cool air. Strangely enough, though, she feels cold; goose bumps appear on her flesh, and a shiver runs down her spine. She’s suddenly reminded of her final visit to her husband’s bedchamber, of his cool hand.

_He’ll not be your husband anymore_. _Jon never wanted to_ be _your husband, remember?_

When she catches sight of Jon, Sansa realizes with annoyance that she isn’t as numb as she had first thought—as she had hoped; she can still discern a peculiar ache in her chest, and she tries hard not to meditate on it, knowing it’ll be too dangerous if she does. More than ever now, she needs to keep her emotions together.

Jon sits at the side of the table, his chair slightly angled towards the door. The first thing she takes note of is the fatigue on his face; he looks so tired and repressed, decades older than he really is, that it’s hard to believe he’s spend most of the previous week in a deep slumber.

“Close the door, Sansa.”

At his order, she realizes that her hand still clutches the bronze latch tightly. Her body is tense, and there’s no doubt that she just wants to flee. She shouldn’t be this anxious, she chides herself, but Sansa can’t help it. Of all the things she’s picked up from learned courtiers like Littlefinger and Margery Tyrell, none of her experience has prepared her for something like this. Matters of the heart have always fallen after matters of survival.

But this _is_ about survival, she convinces herself, shutting the door behind her quietly. She won’t live like this, with Jon, knowing that he doesn’t want to be with her, knowing that she’s holding him back from finding what little happiness he has left. The world might be a better place now, what with the Others vanquished and Daenerys Targaryen on the Iron Throne, but she’s long realized that these conditions do not ensure a happy ending, at least not for her. She’ll learn to make do, of course, like she’s been doing all these years, and that suits her just fine; once she had such high ambitions, but they had been driven by childish motivations, all of it superficial and selfish.

But Jon—there is still so much hope for him. He can still have what he wants, but Sansa knows that he won’t chase after them if guilt hangs on his shoulders.

Happiness and survival. She needs to handle their interactions carefully, if they are to achieve both. Her heart may be well and truly broken, but on a few occasions she has learned that she is an even better actress when she’s under emotional duress. She only hopes that this is one of these occasions.

He watches her with resignation in his grey eyes, one hand resting on top of a piece of parchment that sits on the table. The annulment, she presumes. She herself had signed the document the evening when she had visited his bedchamber last, and she had done it so swiftly, without a hint of bitterness or resentment in her demeanor, that had the news of her annulment been allowed beyond the walls of the queen’s private study, she is sure tongues would have wagged incessantly. Those at the court would surely accuse her of being heartless, self-serving, and they wouldn’t necessarily be wrong, either; Sansa _is_ trying to save herself, just as much as she’s trying to save Jon. She supposes that she is both a martyr and a villain, but at least the crown will reward her nicely for it. Everyone will talk, whether she remains with Jon or whether she doesn’t.

She eyes the empty chair on the other side of the table. “Shall I sit?”

Jon rises instead, a sudden and aggressive movement that she hadn’t anticipated.

“Is it true?” He demands, waving the annulment before him, his face hard. “Did you really help orchestrate this?”

Sansa schools her features into an expression of calm. “Yes, I did.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “Are you telling the truth, Sansa? Or did my aunt force you to lie? Because if she did, I want you to say so. I won’t let her harm you.”

She wants to believe him. Sansa longs to believe that his desire to protect her from his royal aunt stems from something authentic, rather than from duty, from some bone-deep loyalty to her dead father, or for the sake of the continent’s stability. She longs to believe that Jon seeks to protect her because he actually _wants_ to, not because he has to.

It’s as beautiful a song as she can pen, given the circumstances, though the tune she composes would no doubt be melancholy.

“Your aunt didn’t force me to do anything, Jon. No one forced me to do anything. I’ve only chosen to do what’s right.”

“And you honestly believe that _this_ is the right thing to do?” Jon waves the annulment at her again before tossing it back on the table. She watches as it flutters in the air for less than a heartbeat before landing on the smooth, wooden surface below. If only she could be as light as that piece of parchment, she reflects in a moment of spontaneity. Its contents, however, carry with it the future of the Seven Kingdoms, a weight so heavy that it would sink to the very bottom of the Narrow Sea the moment it touches the surface. It takes her back to all those times when she had miscarried; a life, not yet fully formed, not even by half, ripped out of her, blood splattered all over her skirts, the inside of her thighs, and then she herself would feel as lifeless as a mere piece of parchment. She should’ve felt lighter, for lack of a babe within her, and yet each time she had lost one, Sansa had always felt as if someone had placed yet another castle on her shoulders, expectations so heavy that she thinks she would sink into the ground beneath—

“Sansa!”

She tears her gaze from the document on the table to look at Jon. He’s watching her intently with his mouth ajar, incredulous that she’d drift off at a time like this. In truth, it’s a coping mechanism, meant to help as she tries to clamp down on all the emotions that are threatening to erupt, all the pain and sadness and heartache.

“It’s rather warm in here,” she observes, looking elsewhere, desperate to keep her feelings at bay. Jon’s words echo in her mind, the way the words of a hymn bounces against the walls of the Great Sept of Baelar, powerful and all-encompassing. A goblet on the table catches her eye, and she gestures towards it.

“May I have some of that, please?”

He glares at her wordlessly, though in the end he complies with her request. She reaches for the cup he holds before her mindfully, hoping that her desperation does not show, intent on grabbing the stem of the cup, so as to avoid his touch. Her task is hard enough as it is; any physical contact with him whatsoever will only make things worse.

Sansa drinks deeply, is grateful that it’s wine, even when she knows that her tongue tends to act on its own when she consumes it. It will, however, do wonders in soothing her nerves. Not for the first time she is empathetic towards Cersei Lannister’s notorious drinking habit—well, hers and her husband’s, she remembers, as she lowers the goblet from her mouth; for as much as Cersei had delighted in telling others that she was no Robert Baratheon, she failed to note their shared idiosyncrasies that made her quite similar to him, in the end.

With the goblet nestled between her fingers, Sansa stares into what’s left of the wine, a shallow pool of red that seems to glow against the golden hue of the cup. Like Ghost’s eyes, she thinks, giving it a playful, distracting swirl.

Jon says her name again, and she knows that she has no choice but to look up, to face his inquiries and to confirm his suspicions.

His face is a constellation of hard emotions that seem rather incongruent with the feelings of relief that should be impending within him. But there is no sign of anticipation anywhere, no hint that he’s ready to welcome his new-found freedom. There is only dread.

“Why did you do it, Sansa?” He asks, his eyes shining with confusion. “Why did you choose to sign?”

She sighs, almost resignedly; the wine has always been potent, here in the south, and already she’s feeling its effects. She’s not sure whether to feel grateful or worried.

“I _told_ you already—because it’s the right thing to do. Because the Seven Kingdoms needs an heir. Because—” she halts, realizing what she had almost disclosed.

“Because what?”

She squeezes the goblet in her hands. Sansa thinks it’s better to lie, if only to protect her from the heartache, but she discards the thought. They’ve been living a lie for almost three years; perhaps now, when there’s nothing left between them, she can finally admit to a bit of truth.

“Because you deserve to be happy.”

Jon stares at her, brows furrowed. “You don’t think I’m happy now?”

It’s a ridiculous question. So ridiculous, in fact, that she can’t help but scoff. “Please, Jon, let’s not pretend—not when things have already come to this. You’ve been unhappy since you learned that you needed to marry me. And then our children—when I lost all of them, you were even worse off. You were devastated.”

“Of course I was devastated, Sansa—and so were you. So would anybody, if they’d suffered as much loss as we had,” Jon argues. “None of that means that I was ever unhappy with _you_.”

“But you are,” she insists. “We both know that I’m not who you would’ve chosen for your bride, if such a freedom were available to you, and I’ve done nothing but disappoint you. I’ve taken from you a chance to become a father, to have the family I know you so badly desire, and I know there’s a part of you that resents me for it, no matter how gallant and kind you act before me. I know you never wanted me, Jon. And now the crown thinks that I’m a failure as well, even when I know I’m not. So now I’m doing what can only be the right thing—I’m setting you free.”

He says nothing in response. How can he, she thinks, when all that she’s said is true?

“You must sign the annulment, Jon,” she urges, glancing at the piece of parchment on the table. “The future of the Targaryen line rests on our actions. We need to be sensible about this.”

Jon shakes his head in exasperation before roughly swiping a palm down his face. He just needs to come to terms with the reality of their present situation, she thinks, watching as he places his hands on his hips. Her father had adopted that same posture from time to time as well; what would he have thought about this strange predicament? What about her mother? What about Robb—what would he have thought about all this, he who had been so close with Jon?

When Jon speaks again, his voice is quiet, dejected. “I gave my life to save you from that arrow,” he reminds her. “Did that mean nothing to you?”

At this, her countenance quickly melts. “Oh, Jon, of course it meant something,” she assures.

“Then how can you think that I don’t want you, after something like that?”

Sansa refuses to look into that comment. “Jon, you would have done that for anyone, even for one of the boatmen.”

“That’s not—”

“It _is_ ,” she insists, nodding eagerly. “That’s just who you are, Jon—you’re brave and you’re kind and too thoughtful for your own good that it’s a wonder the court hasn’t made fresh meat out of you yet, though I suppose it’s because too many nobles hold you in such esteem, and—”

“Stop it,” he hisses. Sansa bristles at his harsh tone, but obeys.

“What do you want me to say, then?”

Jon doesn’t respond immediately; instead, he stares off distantly at some spot on the floor, as if trying to recall something important.

“I want you to tell me whether you meant everything you said that time you visited me in my bedchamber,” Jon says slowly, carefully, almost as if he’s not entirely sure what he’s going on about.

She frowns in confusion, heart racing in alarm. “I—what do you mean?”

He watches her silently, relentlessly, even while she tries hard not to squirm under his gaze. Her mind is a flurry of words and excuses, but for some reason she can’t string anything coherent together. When she thinks she finally can, it’s already too late.

“You told me that you were a fool to think I could ever love you,” he accuses, and it’s as if the ability to breathe has been taken from her. Her mind is in an uproar, screaming at her from the inside— _impossible, completely impossible, he had been asleep the entire time, I was so sure of it, how do you know all of this, how, how, how?_

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she insists, but even she can hear what little conviction there is in her words.

He’s frowning at the floor again, and it only fills her with more dread.

“Jon, please, listen to me, you need to—”

“You kissed me that day,” he says, staring back at her in quiet wonder. “Before you left, you kissed me.”

Sansa stares at him, astonished, her mouth as dry as the rivers that had once ran through the red waste. Her hand trembles around the goblet she still clutches, and she wants nothing more than to flee from the room, what with its walls closing in on them, trapping her and Jon forever, with their emotions so raw and ragged she thinks they can slice her skin open as easily as a blade against the softest leather.

“You were asleep,” she says, almost accusingly, as if the act is a crime of the highest extent. “I know you were. Even an actor as talented as yourself couldn’t be that convincing.”

At this, he cracks a small smile, though it’s tinged with sorrow.

“So you don’t deny it,” he says, taking a step towards her. “You admit this all happened.”

It’s all too much. Sansa turns her face away from him, her breathing as shaky as her trembling fingers. She’s angry at herself, angry that she hadn’t denied his comments, that she’d fallen into this odd trap that Jon had set out, even while she remembers how surprised he himself had looked as he spoke.

But she’s had enough. Regardless of what Jon knows, regardless of his guilt and his duty and his noble heart, she cares not. Sansa can’t afford to. If she wants to save herself, as much as she wants to save him, she has to press on with the annulment. There’s no time to ponder on all the words left unspoken between them, all the possibilities that could have been. There’s plenty of time for her to do that afterwards, in private, without Jon’s grey eyes studying her every movement.

“It doesn’t matter what I said or did that day,” she declares, shaking her head. “I don’t even understand how you know any of that, but it doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does,” he cuts in, and she glares at him for interrupting.

“How?” She says, exasperated; Seven Hells couldn’t be as hot as the room is right now, the wine has made her tongue loose, and her patience is on its last tether. “What matter does it make that I love you or that I cried for you? We’re no good for each other, Jon; the gods have surely seen to it. We’re cursed to be childless, our union is cursed—”

“And I love you despite all of that!” He cries, and she gapes at him, eyes wide. “Everything you said that day, while I was asleep – I _was_ , Sansa, I swear it on the old gods and the new, but I’m not sure how I knew you were there and I could hear you and see you, see us, but I could. All I knew was that I wanted to respond, I wanted so, so, badly to tell you how wrong how you were about everything, but I couldn’t. I wanted to tell you a million times over how much I love you, how I can never stop loving you, no matter how many of our children are lost. Everyone else can hang; if my aunt wants an heir, she’ll have to look elsewhere. You shouldn’t have to do this, Sansa—neither of us do.”

She continues to gape at him wordlessly, her mind completely mystified by everything that Jon had just told her. She’s incapable of thinking straight anymore; everything is lost in a cloudy haze of confusion and shock, her senses dull. Even when Jon lunges forward and wraps her tightly in his arms, she’s still frozen by everything, continues to stare over his shoulder at absolutely nothing.

“If only I had an inkling of what you were planning, I would have spirited us back home the first chance I got,” he says quietly, leaning his head on top of hers. His hands have made it to the sides of her neck, and she cares not that they are scorching; it’s still the nicest thing she’s felt against her skin in a very long time.

“What good would that have done?” She asks, before she even realizes it. The scene before her suddenly comes into focus; Jon, with his firm body tightly pressed against hers, while her arms encircle his waist, even though she has no memory of ever doing so. She’s still weak for him, she thinks, and she’s both happy and disappointed at this realization.

“We could’ve begun anew,” he explains against her temple; his thumbs caress her skin, and she inhales sharply at the pleasure of his touch. It’s near everything she’s ever wanted, she muses, tightening her hold; it’s almost like the songs in her mind, not the ones she’d heard eagerly as a child, but the ones she’d strung together when times were hard, especially after the loss of every child. She’d wanted Jon to hold her like this so often, had always wanted him to wrap her in his arms and kiss her temple while she sobbed into his chest, for him to whisper into her hair that at least they had each other, which was better than nothing at all. Jon never did, in the end; he’d reach for one of her hands, give a gentle squeeze. He’d tell her it was alright, and together they would sit there in silence, all while she had wondered if everything really was.

“We could have learned each other all over again,” he continues. “We would be away from prying eyes, and I would learn how to be true to you, the way I should’ve been, in the way you deserve.”

Even while her heart soars at such a possibility, a voice at the back of her mind repeats the same thing, over and over and over, louder each time.

_Too late. Too late._

Her vision blurs as tears fall. Sansa can’t hold back anymore, even if she wants to; she has so much to cry for now, just like she did when she had learned that Jon would live.   
  
Her husband reacts instantly. He draws her face away to look at her, even while Sansa tries to avoid his gaze. Had it been possible, she thinks her entire body could shatter into millions of pieces when she feels his lips against her cheeks as he kisses her tears away.

“Don’t cry, Sansa, please don’t cry,” he whispers gently against her skin, fingers tightening reassuringly behind her neck. “We’ll be alright. I promise we will.”

She shakes her head as she cries harder. “It’s too late Jon,” she says between sobs, but his lips continue their relentless pursuit of her tears. “It’s—it’s too late for us.”

His mouth leaves her skin as he looks at her intently, their faces a hair’s breadth apart. Her vision remains a blurry mess, but she can sense the sorrow and remorse that burns in his grey eyes.

“I can’t, Jon,” she says hastily, before he can utter anything to make this even harder than it already is. “We can’t. Not anymore. There’s no time left for us, not with the continent expecting an heir to your aunt’s legacy, not when you so desperately want children of your own. You have to sign—it’s all that’s left.”

With everything that she can muster at this point, Sansa grips his wrists and pushes his hands away from her face while she steps back as far as she can. “Please don’t,” she begs, when he tries to pull her back towards him. “You have to sign, Jon. _Please_.”

He’s as still as a statue, his face so aghast and devastated that she wonders how she could have ever thought he hadn’t been in love with her as much as she had been in love with him.

“Is that—is that what you really want me to do?” He finally asks, his voice flooded with surrender. Her heart breaks all over again; for the first time, Sansa wonders if perhaps it is she who is more dutiful.

“Yes.”

* * *

In the end, Sansa hadn’t stayed to watch him sign the annulment. The moment she had set foot in the chamber she’d been desperate to flee, and she finally had, had gone right past the queen and her Hand, even while Daenerys had commanded her to stop. She thinks about the scene again later that night, as she lies awake in bed, her face once again wet with tears, and she realizes that she shouldn’t have made it as far as she did; none of the guards had actually stopped her from her escape.

Though he had known where her bedchamber was, Jon hadn’t pursued her. She’s glad of it, even while she’s not; what would have happened, had he confronted her again? What would have said, and what would she have done?

The same questions run through her mind for the rest of night, and by the time her handmaiden enters to rouse her, she feels as if she’s had only a wink of sleep. The events from the day before haunt her every movement and thought, almost to the point of madness; the only comfort she has is the knowledge that it’s over, even while her heart is a complete mess.

“The Prince, they say he’s gone back to Winterfell,” Rosyn divulges, when Sansa asks about the things she’s heard.

So that’s it then, she thinks, unable to meet her handmaiden’s gaze in the mirror. A part of her is relieved; Jon’s done it, he’s finally signed the annulment, and now he’s already going home to rebuild. Perhaps his next bride will be a northerner as well, just like his former one, only this time she will fulfill her duty, where Sansa could not.

Jon had said that he loved her, whether she could give him children or not. She believes him now, though it only causes her more grief that she doesn’t wish to express, at least not while she’s at court. Perhaps when she journeys to her new lands, she thinks; maybe then she can truly mourn for all that has been lost, knowing that she’ll finally get to be herself. She’ll mourn for Jon and the love they couldn’t act on, she’ll mourn for the three children they had lost, and she’ll mourn for herself. She’s never died, at least the way that Jon had died, but some part of her certainly has, and she knows that only time will tell whether she’ll be able to live again.

She knows that the court will be abuzz at the news of Jon’s extremely abrupt departure, and the gossip will be even thicker when they realize that his wife isn’t with him. She’s determined to stick it through in her bedchamber, but a summons from the queen ultimately prevents that.

Daenerys’s face is oddly tense, especially for someone who’s gotten what she wants. The future of her dynasty is no longer in peril the way it was before; in fact, Sansa had thought she’d been called upon so that the Queen can thank her for her efforts and her cooperation. She’s not so sure, anymore.

“You’ve heard the news?” The queen asks, even before Sansa rises from her curtsy.

“That the Prince is returning to Winterfell as we speak? My handmaiden told me only this morning,” she explains. Daenerys is watching her curiously, and it makes her nervous. Though she’s several heads taller than this former aunt-in-law of hers, the woman has no issue making her feel as diminutive as a spider, merely with her looks alone.

“And so you had no knowledge of his plans?” She inquires, her tone laced with suspicion. Sansa frowns at this implicit show of hostility, unsure where all this leading.

“Of course not, Your Grace,” she insists, almost too vehemently, as if she just might have something to hide, though, perhaps for the first time, she doesn’t. “The Prince no longer has any obligation to tell me anything, seeing as I am no longer his wife.”

Let the floodgates open, she thinks bemusedly. They’ll all be scheming from dawn till’ dusk, all the ambitious houses, as soon as the news breaks. Some have been planning long before that, she thinks; today will be a glorious day for them.

“I wouldn’t go around telling my courtiers about that just yet,” Daenerys advises. Sansa looks at her with confusion.

“Your subjects likely know already, Your Grace,” she points out, wringing her hands beneath her sleeves. The heat spell that had been raging for nearly a week has finally dissipated, and the temperature is now appropriate enough for her to don her regular gowns again, the ones she prefers. “Now that the Prince has gone home without me, I’m sure that everyone will figure out the reason soon enough.”

The queen does not look so convinced.

“Jon may not be a free man after all,” she says, almost resignedly. “And that means you aren’t a free woman, either.”

The words don’t process immediately; when they do, however, Sansa can’t stop the feeling of horror that rapidly creeps up on her. Suddenly she is brought back to the moment in the private chamber, those final moments when she begged him to sign the annulment.

“Jon _did_ sign, didn’t he?” She asks, heart beating so rapidly, so loud, that she thinks it could wake the queen’s dragons, who sleep in the deepest crevices below the Red Keep.

Daenerys sighs resignedly. “I wouldn’t know. Jon’s taken the annulment with him.”

Sansa stares at Daenerys, incredulous. “He’s done _what_?”

Hundreds of questions and possibilities blossom in her mind while the queen studies her carefully, her violet eyes intent.

“You’ve no idea about it then,” she concludes, her tone being one of concession.

Sansa shakes her head. “Your Grace, had I known, I would’ve—” She breaks off, realizing that she has no idea what she actually would’ve done. Just like she has no idea what she would have done if Jon had decided to approached her again in her bedchamber.

“And here we thought he was merely escaping from the shock of it all,” Daenerys says, rolling her eyes. “Who knew Jon is that capable of such duplicity?”

That may be my doing, she almost confesses, though luckily she doesn’t. Her entire body is trembling from this news, her mind a chaotic battlefield of thoughts and notions.

“What will you do, Your Grace?”

“I’ve not a clue, to be honest,” she discloses, much to Sansa’s further surprise. “He’s half a day’s ride gone, and for all I know he’s already thrown the annulment into the flames.”

Sansa looks away. She’s sure that there’s nothing she can say to lighten the matter, and she doesn’t think the queen would believe her, anyway. All she can do is ask to be dismissed, and she does. Surprisingly, Daenerys grants it.

“He kept on telling me something about his resurrection,” she says suddenly, just as Sansa takes a nervous step towards the door. She turns around anxiously to face the queen again, unsure of what’s to come.

Daenerys has risen to her feet now, though her eyes still feature that same contemplative shine to it.

“Your Grace?”

“The Red Witch had apparently told him that to give life, one must take it,” she explains. “I always thought she meant the sacrifices she was burning on the pyres, but Jon—he believes that she was referring to something else entirely.”

Sansa knows little about the religions beyond the old gods and the Seven, even less about the Lord of the Light. The Red Witch is now a notorious legend, known for her part in resurrecting the Prince that was Promised, but condemned for her acts against the Baratheons, for all the bodies she’s burned.

“What does Jon believe?”

Daenerys’s expression is one of strange sympathy. “Jon’s convinced that because he was brought back to life, his ability to produce children was taken away from him as a result. I kept on telling him that he was being ridiculous, mad even, but…”

She doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Sansa stands before her, living proof of its ending, more effective than any words or sentences can communicvate.

“They always blame the mother when the babe never makes it,” Daenerys says. “All because she bears it. Nobody ever considers that it might just be the father’s doing. Not even myself,” she confesses, her expression being what Sansa can only describe as apologetic.

“It’s only one of many grievances a woman must face,” Sansa responds quietly. “Probably because we’ve always been able to bear pain better then men.”

Daenerys smiles knowingly. “I can agree with that.”

* * *

A letter arrives for her just as the sun is about to set, the parchment wrapped with Jon’s insignia at the front. It’s short, succinct, and she reads it over and over again, until the tears in her eyes prevent her from doing so.

_I don’t want a castle full of children. Not if I can’t have them with you._

_Come back to me, Sansa._

 

**Author’s Note:** This plot’s been with me for the longest time and it’s gone through so many revisions that I’m surprised I actually managed to complete it. This story _was_ easier to write than others, though (cough _SetItOff_ cough), so I guess that’s something. As always, your feedback is always a treat! I’m also on [Tumblr](http://mon-blanchetts.tumblr.com), if y’all are interested.

Thanks for reading, folks.

Title comes from Jessie Ware’s [“Want Your Feeling.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dwR3xtzu6Rw)


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